Not ESL, But A Bookshelf

Published September 14, 2016

We're super excited to introduce our new volunteer writer, Joyce Zhu. And what better way for Joyce to introduce herself than by sharing a story -- a thoughtful, eloquent story -- about how her love for writing first began? It all started over 10 years ago when, as a newcomer to Canada, she discovered the Richmond Public Library.    

The first English word I learned by myself was “cozy.” Out of all the words in the English dictionary, really, taken out of a paperback picture book I found on the third level of the furthermost shelf in the learning-to-read section at the Richmond Public Library. It’s likely I learned my second, third, fourth, and thousandth word somewhere in the million pages of stories stashed at the library, but I’ve forgotten where. The first word, for some reason, will always stick with me: “cozy.” 

About 11 years ago, on Remembrance Day, a five-year-old girl clutching a stuffed panda and her parents frantically wheeled a mighty six suitcases down the arrivals corridor of the YVR airport. She and her parents had not had the best of days, considering they’d almost missed their flight back at Beijing airport and the dad had only just discovered his aviophobia. Just to top it off, Vancouver was not so much baby blue skies and white clouds as portrayed in the media, but a dreary mass of grey that appeared to be crying. In the midst of everything, I -- the five-year-old girl -- started crying too. 

The frenzy didn’t stop there; from musty-smelling house rentals to sour-tasting milk, I felt foreign. I started elementary school, not with a bang, but a sob. Although the academic rigour was microscopic, the social pressure was astronomical. I wasn’t accepted, talked to, or even acknowledged most of the time, for a reason I was ignorant of. At first I thought it was my smile -- that there was something wrong or different about it, so I practiced in front of the mirror. It hadn’t even occurred to me I didn’t even know how to say “smile” in English.

Not knowing a language is quite frustrating, and I’m sure many people have experienced it before. It’s similar to being trapped in a bubble of noisy silence, a half-soundproof cocoon. Mouths move and you catch endings of sentences, but never anything else in between. The only problem with this kind of cocoon is that it’s invisible, and only exists to you. Using sheer force won’t get you out, but you have to learn to peel it, fiber by fiber, tactfully. My tactic just so happened to be a library.

Visits to the library were initially my mother’s idea. Registration for a library card was the most human contact outside of my family I’d had in a bit over four months. The librarian didn’t speak Chinese, but spoke in smiles, which I had already mastered. She took me to the learning-to-read section, showed me the shelves in order of difficulty, and told me to choose from the easiest shelf. The stories were simple, but taught me more in a day than a week in Kindergarten. 

Every Saturday when the Richmond Public Library opened, at 10AM, I arrived with my mother, who would leave me with the librarian to go grocery shopping or job hunting. There, I took an hour rummaging for books and another two hours reading through them until my mother came to pick me up. Whichever books I didn’t finish, I checked out and brought home. I had a backpack reserved for them.

My reading binges continued over several months. For every dollar I accumulated in late fines, I moved up a shelf in difficulty. Once my account reached the maximum ten dollars in fees, and was thus suspended, I had finally read through every single book on the learning-to-read shelves. Paying those fees was probably the happiest moment of my life to that day. 

With a combination of the library’s resources and my own efforts, I learned English. I suddenly had the ability to communicate with those around me; however, doing so was only the beginning. Once I overcame the language barrier, I started to appreciate English as a platform for storytelling. 

What are books but seemingly random arrangements of 26 letters? 

26 letters that built hauntingly realistic, complicated universes from something less than a handful of stardust, a single idea. These 26 letters brought characters to life in ways more alive than the living, carved their hooked noses, painted their glass-coloured eyes, and made me despise or fall in love with them within a page or two. Inevitably, I started writing stories myself. Horribly cheesy ones at first, suitable for my eight-year-old self. Though as I matured, so did my stories. I still managed to visit the library every weekend. Still collected late fees, although I paid them with pride every single time. 

It wasn’t until many years later, I recognized the Richmond Public Library as a catalyst of what had eventually developed into my passion for writing. The impact the Richmond Public Library had on my education and identity is monumental, even to this day. I wouldn’t have gotten here without the library and every one of its shelves and employees. To this day, my stories are still cheesy, the Vancouver skies remain dreary, but at least the Richmond Public Library will forever stay “cozy.”

Photo Caption: For volunteer writer Joyce Zhu, the Richmond Public Library was one of the first places she truly felt at home in Canada. It was a source of comfort, as well as inspiration. By voraciously reading books at the library, Joyce learned English, and later, discovered her passion for writing.